


when they heard the bell toll

by Nieri_is_a_cat



Series: Rhymes and lies lull you to sleep [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Miraculous Ladybug, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Everyone has feelings, Everyone is sad and to different levels of blaming themselves, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Neither has anyone else btw, The only tears I have shed over this are the tears I shed because words didn't want to come out, Tim has straight up not a good time, no beta we die like robins, now on to the actual tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24236650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nieri_is_a_cat/pseuds/Nieri_is_a_cat
Summary: It had been an accident, they had told the press. But the truth had killed little poor Cock Robin.
Relationships: Bart Allen & Tim Drake, Cassandra Cain & Tim Drake, Stephanie Brown & Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Alfred Pennyworth, Tim Drake & Barbara Gordon, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Cassie Sandsmark, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Kon-El | Conner Kent, Tim Drake & Ra's al Ghul, Tim Drake & Selina Kyle, Tim Drake & Tam Fox, Tim Drake/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Series: Rhymes and lies lull you to sleep [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749349
Comments: 27
Kudos: 87





	when they heard the bell toll

**Author's Note:**

> I! Am! So! Hyped! For! This! I finally finished something!!!! Wow! I'm proud of myself! Also first Maribat fanfic and it's angst. I also call this, as a cute nickname, "The AngstFest", just so you know what you're getting into. Hope y'all like this!!
> 
> Nieri :)

_Who killed Cock Robin?_

_I, said the Sparrow, with my bow and arrow._

_I killed Cock Robin._

* * *

It had been an accident, they had told the press. A truck driver who had drunk too much, a fateful accident, poor boy hadn't stood a chance, especially because the driver hadn't stopped to help him. That the truck driver had never been found, no one ever talked about. 

But that had been a lie, no truck driver had done the deed, no. That was just a lie for the press. Those who knew, those who were there, they all knew he'd died in the line of duty, protecting a young mother and her children. They would've been casualties in the war that plagued Gotham City, the war started years and years earlier when a boy with bright eyes and black hair had watched powerless how his parents fell on the ground in the back alley of a theater. The boy had taken that family's place. Died a hero. Died. Dead.

He'd left his family behind, his friends, his love. Everything and everyone, careless of the consequences. He'd left a broken family behind. The fractured remnants of a what was once one. But they couldn't fault him, anyone would have done the same and saved those civilians. Anyone. He'd been the closest, the fastest. 

He hadn't been fast enough to save himself too.

They hadn't seen him fall, they hadn't seen his face contracted in pain, they hadn't seen anything. At least most of them. They hadn't seen him die.

It had been fast, he had died immediately, Leslie told them, his death would have been painless, if not for the injuries he had received earlier. I'm so sorry, Bruce…

And now, now they were one less once more, and it hurt, it hurt so much. All, they had expected, all but him. And now Tim had left them forever. Dead.

* * *

_Who saw him die?_

_I, said the Fly, with my little eye,_

_I saw him die._

* * *

Bart had been there when it had happened. For his supposed being faster than the Flash, Bart hadn't been fast enough. He'd arrived in time to catch Tim's lifeless body before it touched the ground, but he hadn't been fast enough to tackle him to safety. He hadn't. It was his fault. Bart's. He should've been faster. Faster. _Faster_. Tim was dead and it was his fault. No matter the fact he hadn’t seen the sniper, no matter Tim had been in a partially covered position and Bart hadn’t got a good visual of his whereabouts. No matter any of that. Bart should have protected Tim. 

They hadn’t even been meant to be in Gotham, that day, let alone help with a situation like that, but Tim had asked and the Bats had needed the help, even if the big Bat himself would never admit it. 

Cassie, Conner and him had decided to surprise-visit Tim. They had snuck into his apartment with food and beverages and a collection of dvds of Cissie’s newest movies and series and had basically bullied their friend into the impromptu full-day slumber party. Tim couldn’t stop smiling, even when he was grumbling about how he had to go to work and they couldn’t kidnap him in his own house. They had been laughing, and having fun, and even got to meet Tim’s lovely girlfriend Marinette only a few hours earlier, and now there he was. Holding Tim’s broken body. His blood staining his suit. His lifeless eyes staring into nothing. Marinette’s scream. _Oh God, Marinette’s scream_ . Bart was sure it would haunt his dreams for the years to come. But he didn’t do anything, he didn’t cry nor scream, because Tim couldn't be dead, _he couldn’t_. 

In the darkness of his own room, Bart curled up and sobbed into his pillow.

* * *

_Who caught his blood?_

_I, said the Fish, with my little dish,_

_I caught his blood._

* * *

Selina hadn’t even meant to stop and watch the fight. She had just finished a heist, she was going home and had been grateful for not having anyone hot on her tail, pun intended. 

In hindsight she wished she'd had someone hot on her tail.

She had been far, but she had gotten closer because she was curious: it wasn't often that the Bat had outside help for his city, and apparently the outside help was close with the little Robin. Little Robin who wasn't so little anymore, little Robin who had long since changed his name and flown solo. Little Robin in the arms of the speeding blur, little Robin with his head tilted back and blood dripping on his friend's suit.

Selina still remembered when the kid had started off first, serious face and a frown when he looked at her and Bats, her mostly, being flirty on the job. She still remembered tiny, round-faced Tim Drake running around in jeans and a hoodie in the dead of the night to catch a glimpse of the caped crusader and his little bright-coloured sidekick. She still remembered. She remembered his eyes wide open when she talked to him for the first time, she remembered the day he’d given her a photo of herself. She still remembered everything. And now, _now_ she wished she wouldn’t, she wished she could just forget altogether about the child with bright eyes and a sad smile, she wished the scene playing in front of her could be removed from her memory. She wished she hadn’t seen the empty blue in his eyes, hadn’t seen the blood trickling down the side of his face, hadn’t seen the broken look the red-clad girl had, or the way his little friend rocked his corpse. But Selina didn’t have the luxury of forgetting, she didn’t. And she would remember him, remember the child, remember the boy. She’ll remember the hero. 

* * *

_Who'll make the shroud?_

_I, said the Beetle, with my thread and needle,_

_I'll make the shroud._

* * *

Alfred, in his long life, had seen many things, raised many children, and already outlived one of them: when Thomas and Martha had died, he hadn’t had the time to grieve, not really, not with young Master Bruce clinging to him like he could bring them back to the world of the living. When Master Jason had died, a boy of only fifteen, then Alfred had had time to process this death on his own, he had. And then Master Bruce had gone rampant and had spiralled too deeply in his own grief, in his own rage, and Alfred hadn’t really had _enough_ time to nurse his own hurt. Then Jason had come back and it had been painful seeing him hurting so much that he felt like he had to hurt others too. And then Miss Stephanie had died, and her death had affected the family worse than Jason’s ever had: the house had been left in silence after her death, no one spoke as much as they used to, no one _wanted_ to speak as much as they used to, and Alfred couldn’t blame them. Miss Stephanie had been the brightest existence, the loudest, in a way, and her disappearance had dimmed greatly what her presence had created… No matter she had come back, the damage had already been done, and he’d had to bury yet another one of his loved ones. When Master Bruce had died, that, _that_ had been a hard loss. Not only for the city, not only for the children, but for him. Bruce he had raised from childhood, Bruce he had considered a son. And then he was gone, and in a year he was back. That was far too little time to heal the horrifying scarring it’d left on his heart, far too little to even process what had happened. Alfred couldn’t think he could bear another loss like that. And then Master Damian had died, betrayed by his own flesh and blood, and the family had been left wounded once again, once more. That death, that loss, that _everything_ , had left a gaping gash, a still-open wound on everyone.

But the worst of them all, _oh…_ The worst of them all had been Master Timothy. Never he would have thought, _never_ , that he’d have to bury the bright eyed child that barged into their home demanding to speak to Batman. Never. _Never_... Timothy... Tim had been the glue to bring the family together after Jason’s death and had been the glue that kept it together afterwards. And now. Now Alfred truly was at loss, truly on the ground, unable to get back up. When Tim died, part of Alfred died with him.

* * *

_Who'll dig his grave?_

_I, said the Owl, with my little trowel,_

_I'll dig his grave._

* * *

Bruce wasn’t there when it had happened. He had been too far, too focused on his own fight to see what had happened to Tim. He wished he hadn’t. Bruce had already buried two sons, acted like he had to bury two more, and no matter two were alive and two had come back from the other side. Tim wasn’t. Tim was dead. Tim would stay dead. He had asked, no, _demanded_ , that Bruce didn’t put him in a Lazarus Pit. He didn’t want to lose himself in the madness the Pit provided, didn’t want to become a shadow of who he had been before. And Bruce had agreed, promised, and now he regretted it. He wanted Tim back, wanted his son back no matter the cost, no matter the sacrifices. But he couldn’t betray him, his trust, once more, they all had already done that one too many times... At least in death they wouldn’t disrespect his will, wouldn’t let him down again. In death. 

Death had already taken so much from his family, so much, and Tim, Tim had been the last straw that broke the camel’s back. The family, he, they had all been destroyed, and Bruce, Bruce for once could admit that he felt hollow, empty. Empty if not for the rage and the grief crippling him. Rage because it had been planned, they had aimed for him, _for his son_ , and done everything under his nose and now Tim was _dead_ , and they needed to pay. Whoever had done this, whoever had been behind it, they were dead men walking, not Batman but _Bruce Wayne_ was going to make sure of it. Six feet under, they’ll be, six feet he’d personally dig and- _No_ , not even the pleasure of a proper burial he’d give them. _Tim, and only Tim, deserved that_. Tim who deserved the world. Tim. His son.

And Bruce would make the world burn to see him once more.

* * *

_Who'll be the parson?_

_I, said the Rook, with my little book,_

_I'll be the parson._

* * *

Dick blamed himself for what had happened. Blamed himself even if he knew, logically, that he hadn’t even been close enough to the scene to help. Dick. Blamed. Himself. Because Tim was his little brother and _he should have done something_ , anything, to try and save him. When the battle had ended, he hadn’t even known Tim had died. Didn’t even know, and he’d been celebrating because there hadn’t been casualties. There hadn’t been dead. But the truth was that there had been. And Dick had been a fool. An utter fool. He had thought Tim could take it, had thought Tim had his friends, had thought they'd be okay, had thought they would be able to do well by themselves, had thought… _Dick hadn’t thought_ . He hadn’t thought of what could have happened, he hadn’t thought that maybe his friends could have been too far away to help, hadn’t thought that life is not fair and Tim had been shot in the back and _life’s. Not. Fair_. 

And only now did Dick realize _he hadn’t been fair to Tim either_ . He hadn’t been fair to him and now Tim was dead and it was Dick’s fault. _If only_ Dick had listened to him, _if only_ he hadn’t let him go so easily, let him slip away in the cracks, _if only_ Dick hadn’t been so naive as to believe Tim was okay. _If only_ Dick hadn’t let him drift so far away from the family. _If, if, if, if…_ There were so many ifs, _so many_ , Dick couldn’t think about them all and those he could think about _hurt_. And the ‘if’ that hurt the most was the one Tim had expressly forbidden them to think about. To act upon. If only Tim were alive. If. And Dick couldn’t act upon it. Dick regretted he couldn’t.

* * *

_Who'll be the clerk?_

_I, said the Lark, if it's not in the dark,_

_I'll be the clerk._

* * *

Damian didn’t know how to feel. If there was anyone, _anyone_ , in his family who was even close to safe-not-going-to-die-tomorrow, well, that was probably Drake. Not because he didn’t jump face-first into danger - God knew if Drake was idiotic like that - but because the whole family, minus Damian, minus Todd, they had all been on lookout for Drake, when they patrolled together. _And yet_ . Damian had learned not to regard death as a finished business, not in his family, not with the people they worked with on a semi-constant basis. _And yet_. Drake was dead. Drake would stay dead. Damian sucked in a breath. 

The funeral had been held on a sunny morning, sky clear and bright azure. Damian had been near Grayson, near his father, near Dupain-Cheng, and he’d been close enough to the tombstone to read the epitaph on it. 

_Loved son and brother. He lived so others wouldn’t die, he died so others could live._

Drake, Timothy, had died on the line of duty, and for all that Damian didn’t like him, he could respect that. Timothy. The name felt wrong on his lips, but Drake felt even more wrong now, and Damian felt dizzy, because Timothy was _dead_ , and Damian had spent so many years feeling antagonistic towards him, but _now he was dead and Damian didn’t know how to feel anymore_. 

Condolences were said, whispered words of _I’m sorry_ and _He was so young_ and of course. Timothy was young, Timothy was eighteen, Timothy was barely an adult. _And yet_. Death looks back for no one, he knew. 

Damian quietly took Dupain-Cheng’s hand and squeezed. He didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything other than quietly try to comfort her. If he spoke, he knew what would roll off his tongue would be words full of hypocrisy, and his brother, _Tim_ , didn’t deserve that. At all.

* * *

_Who'll carry the link?_

_I, said the Linnet, I'll fetch it in a minute,_

_I'll carry the link._

* * *

Tam did admit to herself that she was fairly new to her boss’s _family business_ , but that didn’t mean she didn’t understand. Tam understood, _Tam understood all too well_. At times she thought she understood better than the very own vigilantes who lived that life. 

She certainly understood Tim better than his family, understood him better than even he himself did, probably, and she understood why he hadn’t wanted to drag her into that life more than necessary. It was dangerous, it was, she had had more than enough proof of that, but Tim… Tim had always helped her, always pulled her out of troubles and she’d helped him in return, when he needed a breather, someone to speak to. Tim was her friend, almost like a younger brother at times, and she cared for him. She _had_ cared. Had. Because how could she care if there was no one to care about anymore? And Tim was dead, and Tam... _Tam didn’t understand._ She didn’t understand how Tim could be dead. Because Tim was a fighter, he came back from everything: he had come back from losing a spleen in the desert, he had come back from almost splattering on the ground, had come back from heartbreak more than once. _Tim was a fighter_ . Tim bounced back from everything. The funeral had been held on a sunny morning, warm, only a soft breeze moving the leaves on the trees. Tam had felt cold. Kept feeling cold throughout the entirety of the function, eyes unmoving from the hunched form of Tim’s girlfriend. She felt pity for the poor girl, pity because she hadn’t had much time to know Tim, hadn’t had much time to learn all his quirks, all the weird little things about him. And really, the thing about Tam was that she _understood_ . But the other thing about Tam? _The other thing about Tam was that she didn’t want to_.

* * *

_Who'll be chief mourner?_

_I, said the Dove, I mourn for my love,_

_I'll be chief mourner._

* * *

Marinette should have known, by now, that life was anything but happy. And yet, _yet_ she had dared to hope, dared to revel in those newfound emotions Tim brought her. She had been a fool, a fool because she should have known better, a fool because she had let him get under her skin, let him sneak into her heart. Fool. 

Marinette had arrived too late. Too late to do nothing more than scream. Scream at him, scream at life, a life that was so unfair, _so unfair and why hadn’t it spared him?_ Tim didn’t deserve that, Tim didn’t deserve to die, Tim didn’t- Tim had died. Tim had died and she had been useless to save him, like she had been useless when Parisians had died at the hand of akumas. But then, then she had been able to bring them back, then she had been able to reverse any damage, then. She had been naive, she had been. She had believed this time would last, that she wouldn’t be alone. But life had a funny way of coming back at people, and Marinette really should have known better. And the morning? The _morning_ had been perfect, just as the other mornings since she’d met Tim had been. That morning she’d met his friends for the first time: they had laughed, had fun at Tim’s expense, they’d watched movies and eaten junk food. That morning. It wasn’t morning, not now, not anymore. The sky was bleeding on the horizon and it had been a long time since it had been morning. Marinette felt like her head was stuffed with wool, and her eyes couldn’t focus on anything but on Bart and Tim. She’d walked towards them slowly, carefully, every step she took leaving her in a drunken haze, until she reached them. And she couldn’t help the pained scream she’d let out when she saw them. She couldn’t. Because Bart was cradling Tim’s body and Tim’s eyes were empty and he wasn’t breathing, _he wasn’t breathing. Oh God, he wasn’t_ \- Marinette fell on her knees and cried.

* * *

_Who'll carry the coffin?_

_I, said the Kite, if it's not through the night,_

_I'll carry the coffin._

* * *

Jason had been there. Jason had been there and he had watched the scene unfold in front of him, like a movie, like it was in slow motion. He wished he hadn’t. Even from afar he had seen the red beam of the gunsight, had seen the bullet - incredibly, he was so far away, so far, so - breaking into his skull, had seen the force of the impact moving him forward, balance lost, _had been able to see the surprise etched on his face_ , and the acceptance. Had seen his body fall on the ground, had seen the speedster who had arrived a second too late, had seen him holding the body, reaching for it just a moment before it touched the hard concrete. Jason. Had. Seen. Everything. And still he didn’t believe, _couldn't_ believe. It couldn’t be true, it just couldn’t. His Replacement wasn’t someone who would die so easily. Tim, wouldn’t just... he wouldn’t just die. Not like this. Not... not with a bullet aimed at his back... 

Coward. Whoever had done this was a coward. And Jason… Jason would unleash Hell on Earth to find and straight out kill them. That person didn't deserve mercy. At all. 

Jason... he had never been on the best of terms with Tim. Definitely not after the Pits, definitely not during the battle for the cowl, and definitely not after the brat had brought Bruce home. But he respected the twerp. Respected his words, respected who he was. And he had apologized. Because Tim deserved an apology, deserved to be acknowledged for everything he’d done. He deserved that. He deserved more. And Jason couldn’t do anything because the brat had died and Jason still hadn’t even come close to making it up to him. He should’ve done something sooner, should’ve been there for him sooner. Sooner. Because now was too late.

* * *

_Who'll bear the pall?_

_We, said the Wren, both the cock and the hen,_

_We'll bear the pall._

* * *

Cassie had never really feared death, not in the beginning at least. She was an Amazon, she was practically invincible, immune to almost everything and yet. Yet, now, _now_ she was scared of death. She was scared because she had seen death, what it did, what it entailed. Bart had died, _Kon_ had died and now Tim… _Tim, who had promised not to die, was dead_. And the world still went on, like it went on when Cissie retired, like it went on when Young Justice was no more, like it went on when Kon and Bart died. The world still went on. Tim wouldn’t anymore. Barbara was silent. She hadn’t been this silent since the Joker had crippled her, but Tim’s death... No one expected Tim to die, no one was even close to being prepared for Tim’s death. For Bruce’s? Been there, done that. The chances of the Bat dying were so high it was ridiculous, and same with all the other members of the family. _Tim, though?_ _Tim_ had plans upon plans _upon plans_ to avoid that outcome. He just couldn’t _not_ have predicted something like this. It just- It didn’t _work_ like this, it didn’t! But Barbara had always been first and foremost a rational being, and she just had to accept that it did indeed work like this. Slowly she nudged Steph who, next to her, was clutching Tim’s cape in a death-like grip, eyes glassy and cheeks red, yet she refused to cry. Steph... Steph now understood why people refused to bring up the period she faked her death. She couldn’t even _bear_ to think that Tim wouldn’t be there the next morning, sleepy smile, bags under his eyes and unkempt appearance. She hadn’t understood before, she hadn’t understood and _it hurt_ to understand _now_. In her hands, Tim’s cape was so heavy, so, so heavy, but Steph couldn't bring herself to put it away, and then again, Babs had had the right idea. Her feet seemed to weigh a ton every step she took, but finally she put the folded cape on the coffin. Not even giving it one last glance, she ran. 

* * *

_Who'll sing a psalm?_

_I, said the Thrush, as she sat on a bush,_

_I'll sing a psalm._

* * *

When Cass spoke, it was usually through her body and her hands. Dance was her way of speaking, movement told a million things, and words, _words_ were special, words were a gift she did not give many people, but for Tim? For Tim though, for Tim, for her brother, she had always tried to use her words, always. Words were her gift to Tim, and to Tim only. And Tim had been understanding, had been nice, helped her learn, helped her practice. He had been a good brother. Cass gave him words, and _I love you_ ’s, and the affection he so desperately needed.

But Tim was gone. Tim wasn’t here anymore. Tim had died and Cass hadn’t been there to help him like he had helped her so many times in the past. When Cass had reached the place, he wasn’t visible, not anymore, a white cloth covering him, his friends huddled together on the side, and Marinette, poor Marinette crouched on the ground, shoulders shaking. Cass moved towards her, and gently put a hand on her shoulder, then knelt and hugged her. Marinette had clutched her cape in her hands, and sobbed into Cass’s chest, quietly, like she didn’t want to wake him up. And Cass understood, because she too could almost think he was asleep, finally having some well-deserved rest. But she knew better, knew what death looked like, and Tim was resting, but he wouldn’t wake up ever again. Cass blinked once, and then again. Her eyes felt itchy, and before she even knew, tears were falling, falling on her suit, on Marinette’s hair, on the ground. 

And Cass might not have been externating her feelings with words, not even Steph’s funeral had done that, but for Tim? _Oh for Tim she was willing to_. And speak she did, told everyone of the brother she’d always known, always loved, always. To Tim, she’d give her words freely. To Tim, she’d give this last gift. 

* * *

_Who'll toll the bell?_

_I, said the Bull, because I can pull,_

_I'll toll the bell._

* * *

Conner didn’t hear anything before Tim died. Nothing. There was no sign whatsoever that someone wanting to murder his best friend. There wasn’t any, and Kon couldn’t stand to even think about any detail he might have missed, because that meant he had left Tim to die. It was his fault. 

Conner didn’t hear anything before Tim died. Nothing. But Conner did hear something after. The signs of loss, the signs of a mercifully quick death. Screams, tears, cries, sucked in breaths, a mother reassuring her children, their small hearts beating fast, so fast, too fast. The sound of a cloth covering the bodies. Body. Tim’s. 

He could hear Marinette’s quiet sobs, he could hear Cassie’s ragged breathing, he could hear Bart’s nervous pacing, he could even hear the sharp intake of breath _the Batman_ took. He could hear all that and more. He wished he could hear Tim’s voice, Tim’s laugh, Tim’s steady heartbeat, unwavering even when facing the hardest threat. 

Conner didn’t see anything before Tim died. Nothing. Nothing that could have led him to think there was a murder about to be carried out. Nothing. And Kon hated himself, because if he had seen something, _anything_ , Tim would still be here. Alive. But he hadn’t, and Tim was hidden under a white cloth, stiller than he’d ever been, stiller than he should ever be. 

Conner didn’t see anything before Tim died. If he had, if he _had_ , Tim wouldn’t be laying on the ground, still, Marinette and Cassie and Bart and Nightwing, no one... _no one_ would be like _this_ . Gloomy faces, sour expressions, hollow eyes, _feeling like they’d died too_ . _Kon felt like he’d died too and he wondered how Tim had been able not to. To not... succumb to this._

But Conner _had_ heard something, _had_ seen something. Tim’s heartbeat becoming slower, so fast it would have been _hilarious if Tim wasn’t dying_ . Conner had heard his heart stop beating, Conner had heard _his heart_ . _Stop_ . _Beating_. Conner had heard Tim die. Conner had seen Tim die. 

Conner wished he could just forget. 

* * *

_All the birds of the air_

_fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,_

_when they heard the bell toll_

_for poor Cock Robin._

* * *

The day had been sunny, when a little bird died, and the day was sunny when the little bird had been buried, when his flock had heard the bell toll gravelly, ringing sadly throughout the air, dooming, in a way, and with finality. There was no coming back. Not from this.

And yet, in another place, far, far from Gotham, where the sun burned unforgivingly, where the wind howled to the silver moon and the soil was as fine as grass and both soft and stone-hard, a man stood waiting. 

And he waited, and waited, and he did hear a bell toll, did hear the cries of sorrow of a broken family. He did hear, but he was not listening. No. He wasn’t. 

And when the time came, he was smiling as he spoke, green eyes meeting green eyes.

  
“ _And at long last welcome home, Detective._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> The author loves to chat in the comments. Only positive criticism will be accepted. If you see mistakes it's because the author's first language isn't english. Please tell me so I can improve in the future, thanks!


End file.
